I loved you once
by arts and letters
Summary: Once. It only happened one time, in the entirety of their friendship—but Sherlock has relived that memory over and over.


A/N: The title of this story and the text for the italicized line breaks come from a poem by the Russian poet Pushkin (same title). Full text posted at the end of this work. I really, really love this poem by Pushkin, and it felt a little sacrilegious using this amazing poem in this sort of frivolous story, but this story was inspired by the first line of that poem, and it did just fit.

This story contains spoilers for series 2 and 3.

* * *

_I loved you once_

It only happened one time, in the entirety of their friendship—but Sherlock has relived that memory over and over.

Wondered to himself—if he had asked for more—would he have gotten it?

If he had laid out the contents of his heart, would it have been enough to make John his?

What if, on that night—

When John came home—more than a little tipsy—after being dumped by his latest girlfriend—

Even now, Sherlock can't remember—Was it the teacher? The secretary? The widow? Does it even matter?

They're all interchangeable. Placeholders.

Anyway, on that night, Sherlock could tell from the heaviness of John's footsteps on the stairs—the fact that he threw his coat on the chair, rather than hanging it up—that the night had ended on a less than amicable note.

Clearly John was upset. Sherlock vowed to be on his best behavior.

"So, by your early and melancholy arrival, I take it things haven't worked out with your latest paramour?

Well, best is always a relative term.

John glared at him—but there was a brightness in his eyes, an unsteadiness in the lines of his mouth—that made Sherlock realize he had to tread carefully.

If only Mrs. Hudson were home. Emotions have always been much more of her area.

But she's not, so Sherlock asked himself, what would Mrs. Hudson do?

Yes, of course. If she were here, she would ask—

"Would you like some tea?"

No response. Sherlock continued, without thinking—

"I may have used most of the mugs in my mold experiment earlier this afternoon, but I could disinfect one if you'd like."

John didn't laugh or yell. Obviously they were in danger territory.

He needed to think.

Mrs. Hudson. What would Mrs. Hudson say next?

"Would you—" Sherlock nearly choked on the words—"care to talk about it?"

That was enough to get a wry laugh out of John.

And apparently enough to loosen up his tongue a bit—or maybe it was just the alcohol.

"We had nothing in common. I didn't really like her that much. So why do I care that she broke it off?"

"Well, maybe it's because—"

"That was a rhetorical question_,_" John interrupted, with a warning look.

Ah, yes. That should have been obvious. Probably for the best that John stopped him before he began to dissect John's psyche at length.

But now Sherlock really didn't know what to say, so he went with—

"Would you like some biscuits?"

"Sherlock, unless you went to the shops today, there is nothing edible in this house."

"Well, I could check Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. She usually leaves her flat locked, but I have a couple spare keys that I've 'borrowed' at one time or another and 'forgotten'to return."

"Let's just—can we just watch some crap telly and not talk?"

John always knows how to handle a crisis—even when the crisis is his.

Taking John literally, Sherlock just nodded, and sat down next to him on the couch. He normally would have sat in his chair, but it was currently being put to other uses.

And by other uses—well, Sherlock managed to stain it with some combination of human bodily fluids during a recent experiment, forgot about it until the stain set, and then when he remembered it again, chose to drag the chair downstairs for Mrs. Hudson to clean. He told her it was a jam stain. He can only imagine that her reaction might have been much more pronounced if she had known the true origins of that particular mark. Although really, he's never understood why some people are so squeamish about blood and guts. It's what we're made of after all.

At least John isn't like that, even though he does cross the line at human heads in the fridge. He's also not particularly tolerant of science experiments conducted with the aid of kitchen equipment.

Speaking of that particular aversion—when John gets up to go to the loo—which should happen very soon, based on John's predicted alcohol consumption and usual bathroom schedule—Sherlock should probably dash into the kitchen to do some damage control before John walks in and sees the collection of kidneys and livers in the fridge. Oh yes, and the _mold_—

But for the moment, Sherlock pushes those thoughts from his mind and focuses on the murder mystery—_typical—_that John has chosen for them to watch.

Approximately two minutes into the program—and it would have been one minute if he hadn't spent the first sixty seconds planning how best to remove the evidence of today's experiments—Sherlock has already figured out who had committed the crime. It took him an additional two minutes to catalogue all the flaws in the plan and another ninety seconds to decide on how he would have committed the murder himself.

He then showed super human restraint in managing to withhold his brilliant deductions for an additional ten—ten!—whole minutes, but after that, he couldn't let another second go by without sharing his conclusions and incisive critiques, and so he turned to his left, about to speak, and then he saw it—

John—John was crying—not audibly, but there was definitely water falling from his eyes—such a bizarre quirk that humans have developed—and all over that teacher!

Or secretary. Lindsay, was it? Lynette? Allison? Why is it that he can remember 243 varieties of ash and not remember a single one of John's—

Ah, yes, John, who is crying, here, on the couch, in Baker Street. He could pretend not to notice, wouldn't do to embarrass John—yes, he can just slowly turn back around to the TV, pretend this never happened—but then John looks up at him, makes eye contact—and it's too late now.

Mrs. Hudson, what would she do in this situation? Or maybe Molly, she's always been the cloyingly sensitive type.

Should he hug John? He's never been one for physical affection, but he certainly isn't opposed to it either, at least as long as it doesn't require exchanges of bodily fluid—so messy and unhygienic—but the angle is all wrong, they're practically on top of each other as it is.

Still, he has to do something, and John does look particularly miserable tonight, so Sherlock rotates his body, starts to lean in stiffly, and so does John—but then instead of a hug, they meet face to face, as John presses his lips against Sherlock's, and for a moment, Sherlock remains motionless.

He can smell—and now taste—the alcohol, as his mouth opens and normally that would be enough to repel him, but in this moment, all of his senses are flooded by John—his scent, the feel of their bodies close together—it's strange, makes him feel uneasy, but there's something comfortable and natural all at once—and although in all of his previous 'experimentation' he remained detached and unaffected by the physical interaction, for the first time, he found himself starting to let go, to stop thinking and immerse himself in the experience—in John

And then—suddenly—John breaks away, ducking out from under him wordlessly, so quickly that Sherlock falls face forward onto the sofa cushions, in a move that would have been comical under other circumstances.

A few seconds later, he hears a slamming of a door—upstairs, John's room—and then after that there's silence.

He feels dazed, as if he's just undergone some kind of emotional whiplash, as he lifts himself up off the couch, and looks around the room. Already his mind is desperately trying to categorize the new information, integrate the experience into previous data—John, roommates, attraction, sex, complications, experiments.

He doesn't know how long he spent sitting there, on the couch, staring into space—and he's not sure at which point he picked up the Union Jack pillow and wrapped his arms around it, clutching it to his chest—but when he does come back to himself, he decides it's time to retire to his room, concerned that if he stayed out in the living area John would refuse to venture out of his bedroom at all.

Since he can't sleep—and what's the point, anyway? He already slept a whole five hours yesterday—he lies in bed and continues to think—about John, and about what he has already started mentally referring to as "the incident."

It's true, what he told Mycroft, that afternoon in the palace. Sex doesn't alarm him, but it also never held much interest for him. It has always seemed like sleeping or eating—only even more voluntary. And messy—both literally and metaphorically.

Sex is just a simple urge of the flesh—a whim of the transport—that distracts his brain and should be avoided as thoroughly as possible.

And it's not exactly like things with John are any different. He doesn't particularly want to have a physical relationship with John. But, at the same time, the idea doesn't disgust him nearly as much as it would with other people.

After all, he likes John—and trusts him.

He finds it difficult to tolerate most people for extended periods of time, but being with John is like being alone—only better.

From the moment they met, he knew John was special. There was something about him—his outward, deferential demeanor, a layer of vulnerability, and then—at his core—the soldier, the anger, a tightly wound, barely caged emotion.

John always tries to act so normal, but he's not, never was, never could be.

Just like Sherlock. Only Sherlock gave up years ago trying to be anything other than what he is.

And maybe, just maybe, it's their differences, their sharp edges, that draw them together.

As Sherlock turns all of this over in his mind, he can't help but wonder—Is this what it's like, when people talk about "falling in love"? Is this how it feels? Is this how it happens? The combination of proximity, and chance—not fate, never fate—

But logically—yes, always, he has to return to the logic, won't do to get swallowed up into emotional flights of fancy—logically, does this make sense? Could it possibly work?

It had never seemed like a possibility before, so he had never given it much thought. But maybe, if John were interested—maybe it would be enough to make him stay.

How perfect that would be! No more school teachers or secretaries. No more John putting on his best jumper and putrid cologne to court yet another vapid conquest. No more worrying about the day when John finds someone worth his time, when he leaves 221B—and Sherlock—for good.

Maybe, maybe Sherlock could be enough for him, and it would just be the two of them, partners in everything.

And maybe Sherlock could learn to enjoy the more physical aspects of the relationship. After all, if it made John happy, if it made John stay—well, what's not to like about that?

What if John is upstairs, right now, thinking these very same things? Or worse, what if he's talking himself out of this? What if he's worrying that he's ruined everything? That Sherlock will be disgusted?

He had planned on waiting until morning, but what if it will be too late by then?

Realizing that time is of the essence, Sherlock quietly but purposefully makes his way up the stairs—skips gracefully over the creaky floor board—stalks silently towards John's room—where the door is mostly shut but not completely closed.

He pauses for a moment, on the threshold.

Quietly—using just the tips of his finger—he pushes the door open so that a sliver of John's room comes into view.

And he sees John there, slumped over uncomfortably—half lying down, half sitting up—but soundly asleep. Dead to the world.

Sherlock is relieved and disappointed all at once. Oh well, tomorrow, they'll discuss this. There's plenty of time. Tomorrow. After all, they have the rest of their lives.

He starts to turn away, but then he becomes aware of the slight chill in the air—always so hard to keep an old London apartment like this one warm—and John is just sitting there, still dressed, no covers over him.

Before he can stop himself, before he can question his actions, Sherlock pushes the door open more fully, walks in, goes to grab a blanket—but then he notices John's shoes, one half off, the other one still on completely—and after pausing for a moment to assess just how soundly asleep John is, decides that he's dead to the world, probably stage III—so Sherlock deftly loosens the laces, pulls off the shoes, and neatly sets them on the floor beside the bed.

Then, he stops, realizes that if John wakes up and sees the shoes so neatly arranged, he might realize that Sherlock had been the one to do this. After all, what drunk man would order his shoes just so before passing out fully clothed? Granted, John is particularly blind to such matters, but why risk it? So Sherlock takes one shoe, turns it on its side, and flops the other one upside down, a little farther away.

There. Much better.

Finally, he grabs a blanket, and carefully lays it over John's sleeping body.

Despite himself, he waits for a moment—watches John sleep—marvels at this state of utter relaxation—so far removed from the world.

Then, abruptly, he tears himself away, quickly closes the curtains, before leaving as quietly as he entered._  
_

He doesn't sleep at all that night—unsurprising, typical—and in the morning, driven by a feeling he chooses not to examine too carefully—he decides to make breakfast and tea.

For himself, of course, but while he's at it, why not make a little bit extra for John, as well? He might as well eat, given the massive hangover he'll probably have.

John comes down the stairs—much later than usual—looking haggard, eyes squinted against the light, even though Sherlock (thoughtfully!) closed the curtains against the morning sun.

John pauses partway in the room. Looks at the table, filled with food, mugs with tea—then looks at Sherlock—who keeps his face neutral—looks back at the table, and says, in a voice that is just a touch hoarse—

"You made food?"

"Breakfast, to be exact."

"For me?"

"Well, for myself, of course, but I made enough to share."

"Um, okay."

"If you're hungry, that is."

"Yeah, starved, actually. Are you going to have some, too?"

"Naturally."

"You might want to get another plate then."

Ah, yes. Sherlock is so unaccustomed to eating on a normal schedule that he had only gathered one place setting—for John.

He isn't particularly hungry, but it seems only polite, and sociable, to eat some of the food himself.

Since when did he care about polite or sociable?

Again, he pushes those thoughts aside, grabs a plate and silverware from the kitchen, and joins John at the table.

_perhaps that love has yet_

He had waited for days for John to say something, anything. After awhile, he started to wonder—did John forget about the whole thing? Could he really have been so intoxicated? Did he dislike the experience so much that he wiped it from his memory? Is that something that John is even capable of doing? After all, he obviously he lacks Sherlock's flair for manipulation of his mental faculties.

But no, that can't be the case. Sherlock can read it in the slight uneasiness he senses, especially when they cross into one another's personal space.

Still, he waits, decides it's best to let John come to him, on his own time. After all, John is used to being "the man" in a relationship. He'll want to make the first move. All Sherlock has to do is be willing to say yes.

_To die down thoroughly within my soul_

When it happens, though, it doesn't at all go the way Sherlock had hoped.

He can tell, before the words come out of John's mouth, what he's going to say. He can see it—John feels guilty. Not the kind of embarrassment of someone who did something they wanted to do but never intended to follow through on. This is another kind of guilt all together.

He knows what John will say, and he doesn't want to hear it, which is why, when John starts with—

"Sherlock, about the other night—"

He immediately interrupts with, "It's fine, John."

"I think we should talk about—"

"I really don't think that's necessary."

"I do."

"Why don't you have a chat with the skull? I'll be in the kitchen finishing my experiment."

"Sherlock, we have to talk about this."

"_Fine._" Sherlock pauses, puts on his best detached expression, and adopts his most clinical tone, before continuing. "You were drunk, and depressed, and I was there. And so we—" kissed felt like too intimate a word—"exchanged saliva for a few moments. We're both grown men. No one died or was permanently scarred. I don't think this needs to be discussed any further."

John has always been an open book. It doesn't take a consulting detective to read the emotions and thoughts in his facial expressions—and now, that look of relief—pure, unadulterated relief—on John's face reveals more than any speech could.

It's like a knife in Sherlock's gut.

But Sherlock is not like John. Certainly he can be expressive—theatrical, even—but he learned how to obscure his emotions from others very early on—and maybe it was never a matter of learning, but simply the way he was wired from birth.

It's so easy to hide behind his detachment, and of course, John doesn't suspect a thing, has no way of knowing what was extinguished by that short verbal exchange.

Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

_But let it not dismay you any longer_

After that incident, things in Baker Street returned to normal. Or as normal as they could ever possibly be.

Sure, it stung a little more, every time John went out on another one of his dates—

_Why her why not me what does this vapid woman have that I don't John doesn't even like plays so why would he go with her why is he putting on cheap cologne and a brand new jumper when we could be out solving crimes together why why why_

But Sherlock tries his best to bury those thoughts and feelings deep in the far reaches of his mind palace.

Besides, it's probably for the best. Sherlock could never be what John wants or needs. It was absurd to even consider it. No, it could never work between them. Anyway, that's not what Sherlock wants, not really.

Still, though, he knows that one day, it will happen. John will leave—he'll leave Baker Street, and he'll leave Sherlock.

Of course, Sherlock didn't know at the time, had no way of foreseeing how all of this would end, because when it happened—the _incident—_that was before the re-emergence of James Moriarty, before the trial, before the plan, that fateful plan that he and Mycroft engineered. All of this, their fleeting not-romance, all happened before The Fall.

_I have no wish to cause you any sorrow._

That phone call—if possible, it hurt Sherlock even more than John, as impossible as that may seem.

Because it did hurt John, Sherlock could tell, can remember even now the way he cried out—

_SHERLOCK_

As Sherlock plummeted to the ground.

Sherlock can still hear in his head, John's voice on the phone call, as he says—

_Stop it, stop it now_

And the entire time, Sherlock had to play the part—

_It's just a trick, a magic trick_

(There was a code in there, just for John—it's a trick, all a trick. A lie within a lie within a lie. One layer: This, the fall, it's a trick, a lie, a fiction. Sherlock hoped that maybe, just maybe, John could figure that out (he didn't). Then the second layer, the final lie: pretending that Sherlock never wanted more than this.)

Then those final words—

_Goodbye John_

He knew it would hurt John, but he had no idea it would crush him, not until that moment in the graveyard. When John uttered those words—

_One more miracle—don't be dead_

And it was all he could do not to grant John's wish right then and there.

But he couldn't—he had no choice. John's safety—that mattered most, and this was the only way, the only way he could do it.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

Goodbyes are always painful. Endings are always painful. But Sherlock didn't know that pain could run so deep.

_I loved you_

Two years. It took two years, and in that time, Sherlock went to the far reaches of the globe and back.

(For John, always for John.)

And then, when he came back, finally he came back, to London, to Baker Street, to John—he returned and the world he once knew had been turned upside down.

John was gone, long gone from Baker Street, in a new flat, and there was a new woman. But not just any woman.

He couldn't hate her—she was everything John needed and all that he wanted—clever, fearless, funny—female—and Sherlock could never begrudge John anything that brought him such happiness.

But that didn't mean that it was easy, seeing the way that John looked at her, especially in the beginning, when John had nothing but scorn for Sherlock.

John forgave Sherlock, of course, mostly, eventually. But it was never the same, not after that.

_wordlessly_

Sherlock spent two years alone—two long years in exile, but he made it through, promised himself, promised John—although John didn't know—that he would return.

Sherlock didn't die when he jumped off of that building, but he can't help but feel that something did. Something died, and maybe it was just that small part of Sherlock that still hoped for an end to the story that didn't involve John running off and getting married to someone else.

Maybe, maybe things could have been different.

But they aren't. There's no other ending but this one.

_without hope_

And so, when John asked Sherlock to be his best man, he tried to be the best Best Man he could possibly be, even when that meant threatening ex-boyfriends, folding serviettes and reading saccharine telegrams—even as every passing day chipped away at little pieces of his heart, even though he felt like a part of himself withered away and died.

But John couldn't know.

He wanted John to be happy. That was all that mattered.

He planned the perfect stag night—tried to watch their alcohol intake carefully, wary of what might happen if too much alcohol flowed between them.

_If he got too drunk, would he say too much? Would it happen again?_

Of course, John interfered, and they both ended up smashed, but other than that one moment—a hand on his knee—a warm, comforting presence—it all went perfectly.

Sherlock tried not to be disappointed, tried to squash that small part of himself that had been hoping for—

No, he can't think about it. He taught himself long ago not to want something that cannot be had.

And so he went to John's wedding and did everything that he was supposed to do, even though every moment felt like an ending, even though he couldn't stop himself from wondering—

_What if what if what if_

What if John had wanted this with Sherlock—what if they could have gone off together, what if things could have been like they were before—before The Fall, before Mary, before this all unraveled.

The romance wasn't important, of course. That would have been for John, only for John, only to make sure he wouldn't lack something that seemed to matter so much to him. The physical component would be for him as well.

All Sherlock cared about, all that he would have wanted, would be for the two of them to be together, in Baker Street, solving crimes, getting into trouble and digging their way back out, laughing and fighting and making up—and they would never be bored, Sherlock would never be bored again, never be alone, never be trapped in a prison of his own making, no more conversations with the skull.

That's all he wanted.

_By shyness tortured_

Sometimes he wishes he could go back in time, to the moment before their meeting, and stop himself from uttering those life altering words to Mike Stamford—

_Who would want me for a flatmate?_

But of course he wouldn't do that. He could never do that. As much as this hurts, as painful as this all is, he would never erase any moment of their time together, even the very worst ones.

_or by jealousy_

So he watches from the sidelines as they poses for pictures. He pretends not to be jealous when they hold hands underneath the table, or when John whispers something quietly into her ear. And he keeps his face impassive when Mary gives John a knowing smile and a subtle wink. He doesn't even cringe when he sees the glow on John's face as he watches Mary walk down the aisle.

If this is what John needs to be happy, then how could Sherlock possibly stand in the way of that. Even if he will never stop wondering—

_What if?_

But none of that matters, not anymore. All that matters is making it through this day and giving John everything that he wants (Mary, he wants Mary)

And all that he deserves.

_I loved you with such tenderness and candor_

Sherlock gives his Best Man speech, and he means every word of it—

_The best and the bravest man I have ever known_

He is, truly. Never could Sherlock have imagined a man like John Watson, never could he have expected to find a friend like this.

_The man you saved_

Because John did save Sherlock. He did more than save Sherlock—he changed him. Into a person who feels and cares, a person who now knows what it's like to be something other than alone.

Some days, some days Sherlock hates him for that. Hates the person he's become, hates that John helped make him this way.

But he would never change a thing, even if he had a choice.

Of course, he doesn't. He doesn't have a choice. He could never go back to being the person he was before John walked into his life.

John changed him, and he saved him, and that's why Sherlock made his promise, in front of everyone, with steady words that hide the storm underneath—

_"Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there—_

By the time his final deduction sets in—_three, all three of you—_there is static in his head—and then suddenly the static gives way to the refrain—

_It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over It's over_

But he hides it well, comforts and congratulates them—watches them walk away—finds himself stranded on the dance floor—realizes there is no one left for him—

And quietly slips off into the night.

His last vow—he meant it, every word, even though there are truer words he could have said—but he didn't. And he won't

Still, they echo quietly in his head, haunting him and comforting him.

_I loved you, once—_

_And pray that God grants you to be loved that way again_

* * *

A/N: Hopefully you enjoyed this one shot. I've mostly done friendship fics, so this is the closest I've waded into the slash-y waters so to speak (though I've certainly read my fair share). I'm always torn because on the one hand I like to stick as closely to canon as possible, and on the other hand, I hate to see Sherlock all alone, and I really do love John and Sherlock together. Maybe in the future I'll try my hand at a Johnlock story with a happier ending.

Anyway, if you have a moment, please leave a comment! I'd love to hear what you thought of this story.

Oh, and if you're in the mood for more feels, I've posted a link on my author page to a youtube playlist where I've compiled some of my favorite fan made Sherlock trailers and videos. None of them our mine.

Full text of poem:

I loved you once; perhaps that love has yet  
To die down thoroughly within my soul  
But let it not dismay you any longer;  
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.  
I loved you wordlessly, without hope,  
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.  
I loved you with such tenderness and candor  
And pray that God grants you to be loved that way again

For some reason I can't get the link for this translation and the original Russian to copy correctly here, but if you search "Pushkin I loved you once Northwestern" it should be the first link that shows up. It's from a website called: From the Ends to the Beginnings: A Bilingual Anthology of Russian Verse.


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